


Djinn

by mamishka



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:03:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamishka/pseuds/mamishka
Summary: At the doomed Battle of Maiwand, Dr. John H. Watson, newly attached to the 66th (Berkshire) Regiment of the Foot, stares death in the face as it comes for him in the form of Afghan snipers, Ghazi... and Djinn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for Sherlock Seattle's "Watson Washington" convention program book when it looked like they were only going to get three stories submitted. But when they ended up with an unexpected seven stories, it was pulled from the book production.
> 
> It's a short piece for me, since the stories for the book needed to be 1,000 words or less. I may or may not expand upon it.

It was a massacre. The pass of Maiwand was bathed in the blood of warriors from both sides, but it was the British who were impossibly outnumbered. The brigade, lead by Brigadier General George Burrows, was quickly decimated by a combination of superior artillery, sniper fire, and thunderous, repetitive attacks by the Afghan cavalry. 

Bloodied and frantic, the remains of the brigade scrambled to retreat, but to where? Before them were the charging hoards of Afghan tribesmen and Ghazis; behind them, a dangerously steep ravine. Soldiers desperately ran, stumbling and tumbling in their haste. Many of them died by their own hands, falling upon their drawn swords. The surgeon in Watson told him to stop, to help, but the soldier made him press on ahead. There would be more than enough patients for him to tend to once they made it to safety. 

If they made it to safety.

“Sir? Sir we need to keep going!”

Standing on the opposite side of the ravine, Watson heard his orderly’s words, but took no heed of them, his gaze drifting past the men firing into a new wave of cavalry, as of yet unaware of another group of horsemen coming in from the east. 

The remaining soldiers had to be warned! They could not see what Watson saw - shadowy figures of fire and smoke, covered from head to foot in rippling robes, the air about them shimmering. This must be _their_ land and the battle, the blood, has drawn them out to investigate. 

With horror, Watson knows that the remaining contingent will fire into the approaching tribe and, with their actions, defeat the very purpose of their sacrifice. If even one member of the approaching horde falls, not a single British soldier will survive this day.

Wresting his arm free from Murray’s grip, John plunges back down the ravine, shouldering his rifle and medical bag. He digs his heels into the earth to keep from tumbling tail over teakettle as he makes his way down, only to dive back into the dirt with hands and feet, clawing his way back up the other side. The soldiers have just become aware of this new threat from the east, a portion of them pivoting to meet their new attackers, waiting for them to draw closer, rather than wasting their ammunition.

Captain Slade’s hand is outstretched toward his men, holding them steady. And hold they do, even though they are brutally exposed to the Afghan snipers upon the clifftops. With every precision shot, another soldier dies. 

“Hold steady, men. Just a little longer.”

A few of the soldiers lift their heads in confusion as Watson rushes toward them, yelling, “Do not fire! Do _not_ fire!!” Paying the cries no heed, Slade lifts his musket and takes aim at the forerunner of the group. Without hesitation, Watson throws himself at his Captain, knocking him to the ground, the shot going astray. Turning, Slade stares at the medical officer, brow creasing in shock and betrayal. “Watson? What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing, man?” 

“Sir! They’re not part of the cavalry! Don’t shoot them sir, you’ll just bring their wrath down upon us!”

Slade looks at the assistant surgeon as if he has lost his mind… and perhaps he has. 

As soon as he arrived in Afghanistan, Dr. Watson had begun to question his sanity. He started seeing things that to a man of science and medicine couldn’t possibly exist. Something in this forsaken land had awoken within him a power he didn’t understand and couldn’t control - the ability to see things that to the rest of the world were invisible. And yet to his gaze they were very real. At first he wrestled with the medical conditions that could result in such strange fantasies and nightmares, but with each passing day he came to realize that he was not taken with a fever, not poisoned or hallucinating and, much to his surprise, not mad. They existed, just as much as he did, and they had the ability to affect their surroundings and the beings inhabiting it around them. 

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Watson meets his Captain’s regard with as much confidence and assurance as he can muster in their current circumstances. “Please Captain, I know you have no reason to believe me, but let them pass. They will not harm us unless we harm them first.” Unless they are shaitan. Watson shudders. If that is the case, then it matters not if they fire or if they don’t. It is his hope that they only seek to have their curiosity satisfied. If so, then the best chance of survival is to let them come and offer them no harm. It’s a 50/50 chance, but one thing is certain. If even just one horseman falls, every British soldier here will die.

“Pull it together, doctor and retreat! That’s an order!” 

Without thinking, John steps forward of the firing line, waving at the shrouded figures, raising his arms over his head in broad gestures. He knows that they can’t possibly hear him over the roar of their horses’ hooves and the nearly constant exchange of firearms, but he has to try. He has to do _something_.

“Please! They don’t see you! They don’t understand! Please, have mercy!” 

With perfect clarity he hears two shots amidst the impossible din that surrounds him. The first shot comes from behind him and Watson watches in horror as the bullet strikes the leading horseman, the figure jerking back under the strength of the projectile, tumbling to the ground. The second comes from the cliffs above, a sniper’s jezail bullet tearing its way through his shoulder and knocking him backwards.

He lies there, unable to move, his shoulder shattered into pure agony. He hears the crackle of fire and the screams of the soldiers behind him, dread overtaking him. He has failed. Not a single British soldier will survive this encounter.

He can feel Murray pressing his hands against his shoulder to try and staunch the blood, a cry of pain escaping Watson until suddenly, the pressure is removed. Opening his eyes, he tries to focus on his surroundings, only to espy one of the creatures crouching down next to him while another holds his orderly captive within an unbreakable grip.

“You know what we are?”

Watson nods. The word, along with blood, bubbles past his lips. “Djinn.” He cannot see the creature’s eyes, but he can feel them as the cloaked figure studies him intently.

“How?”

Coughing weakly, Watson struggles to form the words, his Pashto broken and unwieldy. “Don’t know,” he wheezes. “Can. Mullah - said I have Sight? Told me what you are - what you can be. Good. Evil. Both and neither.”

“You tried to stop them. The others.” The voice is undefinable. Neither male nor female, neither young, nor old. It simply is.

“I knew… you not forgive. Had to try. For my men...” Every word is a like a battle for him but he has to try to save those who are fleeing the retreating front. His life is over; he might as well give his death meaning. “Please, spare them. Let them be safe.”

Watson can feel himself dying and in this moment nothing else matters, not the war nor the men he swore to protect, not the desert nor the djinn. Cracking his dust-caked eyes open, John looks blindly heavenward and rasps softly, “Please, God... let me live.”

His vision is blocked as a hand comes to rest over his features, the djinn’s voice barely audible as Watson feels himself slipping away into blessedly cool darkness.

“You will.”


End file.
